When The Darkness Comes
by HelmutVinagrette
Summary: Stella's hand is warm on his shoulder, and Mac glances to the woman. "This could be dangerous." It always is. OC and SMacked with D/L. I've been away a long time.
1. Chapter 1

**_You may not remember, but this is On The Job; version 2. Much Love, C._**

* * *

><p><em>They're hiding. Hiding somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet.<em>

_Shhh, don't make a sound._

"_Allie, I'm scared." A tiny voice squeaks like a mouse; the silence is gone._

_Hush up, hush quick. Before the Shadow Man hears you. No noise; no noise must come from you. Let the world engulf you; let it hide you in its darkness until the sun comes and everything's alright again._

_Heavy footsteps crunching leaves – stomp, stomp, stomp. Coming closer, Death creeps nearer. The little mouse squeaks again but there is no noise now; not from behind her hand._

"_You can try hiding, princess, but you're not walking out of this forest alive." The voice is Death. It is Danger and it's nearby – so close she can smell the gunpowder and tobacco and the blood._

_The blood is thick and sweet and coppery._

_The blood is her grandfather's._

_SNAP!_

"_Found you."_

_BANG!_

She screams out because it's real to her; it's not a dream, it's not just in her mind. She screams loud enough to drown out her blaring alarm. She tumbles to the ground – how did her covers get around her legs like that? Her chest is heaving and her head is spinning; she's still asleep, but her eyes are wide and terrified and searching for the Shadow Man. He's not here, he won't ever be anywhere near them ever again.

She swallows, and tastes the bile in her throat.

It's a dream.

"Al? Are you okay?"

It's the Little Mouse, all grown up; older and taller and prettier, and she's standing in the bedroom doorway, looking down at her older sister in concern. It's the early morn and it's a school day – the scream had frightened her awake. It happens sometimes. It's been happening more frequently.

Her older sister is on her feet, swaying like the bamboo in a breeze, but on her feet and awake. She is haunting in the dim moonlight; nothing but limbs and hair and exhaustion. "I'm sorry," she says. Her voice is rough and dry like sandpaper and glass. She runs her hand through her hair, and notes that it's getting too long and the curls are becoming a nuisance. Her eyes are terrifying in the glimmer – sharp grey like their mother's eyes. "It must've been the wine from last night and the horror film."

She's lying, and Little Mouse knows it. "Go get dressed – I'll drop you off on my way to work."

Little Mouse hesitates in the doorway, her sister is not alright and she hasn't been in a while. Something is wrong, but she knows better than to ask. So she nods her head and turns away to brush her teeth and get dressed for the day. A little Mouse is nothing compared to a cunning Fox.

When her sister is gone, the Fox turns to her own bathroom and stands in the light. The girl staring back at her is pale and gaunt; late shifts and trying cases are never kind, but she is alive. She survives because she is the Fox, and she is strong. There is a medicine cabinet behind the mirror, and she takes a pill bottle from it.

On the bottle is her name: Allegra H. Williams. The instructions are to take two when necessary after a meal. They're for anxiety.

She takes two without a meal, and drinks the water out of the tap.

* * *

><p>Little Mouse waits in their living room for Allegra, who prefers the name Alene. The living room is modest, like the rest of the apartment, because they don't need much space between them. They've lived in worse. They've learnt to become anchovy fish; squeezed tight and neatly together in a can.<p>

Today is Alene's first day at her new office – she wants to make an impression. So Little Mouse lets her use her good blazer jacket and her new watermelon shampoo, and makes Alene breakfast because she knows Alene won't remember to eat. She takes off her school blazer and lays it on the couch back, where it won't be touched by grease or coffee or juice.

On her school blazer is Little Mouse's name. Whether or not it is her real name is another matter altogether, but people know her as Charlotte H. Williams.

No one knows what the H stands for, or at least, they don't remember.

Regardless, that is her name.

"Have that to go; we don't have time for breakfast today," Allegra comes rushing out of her bedroom, dressed and ready for her day at her new office. She looks office-ready in her black slacks and pale blue shirt; her face betrays her though.

Charlotte – who much prefers to be addressed as Charlie – soothes her sister. "You have time for coffee, at least." There's a travel mug of coffee already sitting on the table, steaming beside a brown paper bag of bagels and cream cheese and chives, because Allegra has a preference to them. She's the younger one, but she likes to think of herself as an adult in miniature form.

Alene smiles at her sister fondly, and Charlie returns it as they both drape their coats around their narrow bodies to brave the New York winter. They drive to Charlie's school – a private institution somewhere on the Upper East Side where she knows her sister will be safe.

"Will you be picking me up today?" It's a little longer before homeroom, but Charlie likes to go to the library and read before class. She likes the silence there.

Alene checks her watch. She hasn't even met her new supervisor yet. "I can't say," she confesses, and Charlie seems to accept this. "I'll call into the school to let you know by lunch." She leans out of the window and Charlie leans in and they kiss on the cheek. "Stay on campus, okay? If I don't come around, I'll get Jason to pick you up."

Charlie rarely ever takes the subway now because Alene doesn't let her. 'It's too dangerous', she would say, and Charlie's becoming increasingly frustrated by Alene's obscurity. She sighs, as the teen that she is. "Don't worry – you'll do great today." She smiles once more and turns to her school, waving as she goes.

Alene watches her sister go with a wistful air. As she pulls away she wonders when Charlie grew up to be older than her.

* * *

><p>New York City is indeed a city that never sleeps. It snoozes sometimes, very briefly, but rarely is it ever truly asleep. Detective First Grade Mac Taylor contemplates this from his office at One Police Plaza as he waits for the shift to begin. He's been there for most of the night; digging a hole into the pile of case files that sit at the edge of his desk. He hasn't made much progress – the pile on his desk is still a pile, but he keeps working.<p>

His coffee is cold and tastes like mud, but he drinks it anyway, hoping that perhaps the bitter taste of gross on his tongue will bring new ideas to his mind. It doesn't. Instead it gives him a stomach ache.

"I'm taking a guess that you didn't go home last night."

The voice startles him, but he knows the feminine tone that teases him. When he turns, there is an indulgent smile on his face, as Stella Bonasera leans against his office doorway shaking her head at him. She's been his partner for more than a decade, and that's a long time for a partnership. It's longer than the marriage of some of the people they know, and their friendship stronger than any relationship they see. But she is his partner, and for now, it seems that the word matters everywhere except for where he wants it to.

She enters his office without him requesting her to; she never really needs his approval for much these days, but he's no pushover. On the job, that is. Today he notices that she's wearing a flattering shade of blue-green that compliments her skin, and her caramel brown curls are still somewhat damp from her morning shower. She brandishes a bag of what his nose identifies as breakfast from the corner diner, and his stomach moans its agony and relief. He realizes that he hadn't had dinner or breakfast.

"I got a little caught up in the paperwork," he admits sheepishly, and eyes the breakfast burrito in Stella's hand longingly until she gives it to him. He thanks her and she smiles the smile a person who knows him too well, and he takes the first greasy bite of his first meal in twelve hours.

Stella watches him eat but has nothing for herself; she's had breakfast on the way to work, a granola bar and scrambled eggs to go with her coffee. The man standing in front of her that is nearly choking on his food has been her partner for so long that she doesn't have to guess or wonder about his schedule. She had known the moment she woke in the morning that he hadn't left the office; she had known to get him breakfast and a decent cup of coffee because afterhours, coffee from their office break room is swill.

Mac bites down on something crunchy, and she shakes her head at him. "You need to learn to take care of yourself, Mac," she chides him, glaring mildly when the man shrugs around his chewing. "What happens the day I stop being your partner and there's no one around to remind you to eat or sleep? Hmm? At the rate you're going, I wouldn't be surprised if one day you forget how to breathe."

"Perish the thought!" he cries teasingly; the burrito is now gone, and he disposes of the wrap in his metal trashcan.

Stella raises an eyebrow. "Of you dying? I'll say," she deadpans in return. The thought of sitting at his grave and being handed the folded American flag shakes her in ways she's not prepared to admit. She watches, amused when he digs through the paper bag again, searching for more food, perhaps, or a napkin. He finds both in the form of a bagel and a white square piece of tissue.

"I was thinking more along the lines of you not being my partner," he bites into the bagel; cream cheese that doesn't mingle well with the aftertaste of his burrito but he's just so _hungry_. Out of the corner of his chewing mouth, he grins when Stella rolls her eyes at him. "I think I'd have to quit working altogether if that happens." He makes light of it, but truly the man is terrified of the thought of never having her at his side.

Stella is as much a part of him as his arm is. She is his heart and his brain. There's just no point without her.

"Be careful what you wish for, Taylor. If tomorrow you wake up and I'm in somewhere like New Orleans, I don't want to hear about you quitting CSI or jumping off the Empire State for me." She drawls it, but it's heavy between them – somehow they're afraid of it ever coming true.

He regards her seriously. "New Orleans can find another CSI to handle it – you're staying right here with me in New York if I have to fly over there and haul you back myself."

She smiles softly, pink on her high Grecian cheekbones. "Well then, I guess you're stuck with me, aren't you, Mac?" It's nice to know he cares. It's nice to know she's not the only one.

Mac chuckles a little grimly and he bundles his trash away. His desk is cluttered enough, and Stella must resist the urge to reorganize it for him. "Partners in justice until the very end, Stella; don't you forget it."

She doesn't think either of them will ever forget it.

Someone knocks at the glass wall of his office, hesitant and unsure, and they look at each other briefly. It's not someone they recognize – she's pretty and young and by the look on her face, nervous enough to vomit, but she has the eyes of someone who knows more than she perceives to. When she steps into the office, Stella realizes that the girl is the reason she is even in Mac's office.

She's the new girl.

"Detective Taylor?" the girl's eyes dart from Stella to Mac; they're bright and grey and oddly disconcerting as they settle on Mac. She knows from research and experience that Detective Mac Taylor is a man of the Marines, and so she reaches out awkwardly to shake his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Allegra Williams – the transfer from Brooklyn North," she informs him, casting a nervous grin over at Stella as well.

Mac nods and ignores the 'sir' in her address. She will learn later on, his dislike of the title. This is the girl he's been waiting for in the morning – the reason he had called Stella in earlier before shift. "Please, sit," he gestures to the seats in front of his desk, and Stella takes her place beside him as he settles back into his swivel chair. "This is my partner, Stella Bonasera." Stella nods her greeting and a friendly smile before she stands beside him and hands him the file on Allegra Williams, and they watch the girl carefully.

"How long were you in BroNo?" Stella inquires. She likes the fact that this girl has run the same beat that she had; she knows without perusing Allegra's file that she is good at what she does, because anyone who survived Brooklyn North can survive Manhattan.

Allegra is surprised by the woman's mention of the slang term, relieved and hopeful at the thought of perhaps sharing the same origins with this woman. She is tall and beautiful, with a face and body that Alene wishes God had blessed her with too. "I was there the moment I got out of the Academy," she tells Stella. It's been five years give or take; a long time to be in one place for Alene. "BroNo can get to you after a while."

"I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did," Stella laughs. Brooklyn North was a miserable time for her; a time before Mac and her team. Before her family. "After a while, I wondered if I wasn't going to end up killing my boss and hiding his body somewhere."

The younger woman chances a smile, and Mac is pleasantly surprised to find that it lights up her face. "So it's true then? Howards has been there since the time of the Depression."

Stella throws her head back and laughs; it's an inside joke she hasn't heard in a long time. It reminds her of her age, and how far she's come, there is no bitterness behind it. She's moved on, and she's happy.

Mac is reading through her file. It's full of things he had found in Lindsay's file as well; recommendations and praises and a history of Allegra's experience on the field, but something is odd about the timeline. Unlike Lindsay, whom he was given full familial information on; Allegra's only listed family is a younger sister. There is no other mention, and Mac thinks it's possibly a delicate subject. He shuts the file and smiles warmly at Allegra before he glances at Stella.

Their eyes meet; they speak without words, and the woman nods imperceptibly. Approval.

He turns back to Allegra and offers the girl a quiet smile. "Welcome to the team."


	2. Chapter 2

There are many reasons for New York mornings to be beautiful and serene – the dawn of time before the soul of New York blares to life; rare moments of peace and silence and beauty. It's quite like an impressionist painting; the calm before the storm – deceptive and chimeric.

Danny Messer has never been a man of the morning. Anyone and everyone of within his family and friend circle can testify to his dislike of dawn, but he's sure that Mac will only ever appreciate his sentiments while ripping Danny's badge from his waist and dropkicking his ass to the curb. To the Bronx native, the former Marine is more terrifying than his own father; more terrifying than is mother at Spring Cleaning.

He makes his way down the hallway of the 1PP parking lot; grinning as he rounds the corner and catches sight of the familiar (and curvaceous) behind of a certain Montana native. His pace quickens; Danny stalks the woman with a devious grin gracing his handsome face.

"G'morning, Montana," he sings, and the grin only widens when the woman jolts at the startling sound of his voice. His grin is lopsided and roguish when she turns to him; the grin of a schoolboy caught tugging her pigtails. "Had a nice night?"

Lindsay Monroe glares at the man, stepping swiftly to shake him off, but Danny's legs are longer – he matches her strides effortlessly. "The name's Lindsay, Messer," she growls. "And it's none of your business what I do at night."

The man holds his hands up in a mock-surrender – his coffee cup clipped between his thumb and his first two fingers as he whistles lowly at the hostility received. "Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," he teases her, winking when Lindsay whirls to glare at him. "Did you turn over and realize I wasn't there?"

Before the woman can snarl a reply, her body is jolted forward by the bony joint of another person's shoulder, and it's only by Danny's speedy reflexes that stop both her and the strange body from tumbling onto the linoleum floor of the morgue. The route of the parking lot takes them through either a direct elevator to their floor, but most of the Taylor team bypasses the elevator traffic in the mornings by taking a stroll through the morgue to take the elevator up from there.

Apparently this morning, someone else thought the same.

"I'm so sorry!" They can't see her face, but at least they know it's a girl, and that she's incredibly sorry for bumping into them. Lindsay is still tightly gripped in Danny's arms when the girl recovers and brushes off Lindsay's back in a nervous hurry, until Danny chuckles and pulls the woman to his chest.

"Whoa there, Roadrunner – is Wile E. on your tail again?" He peers behind the girl down the empty hallway, and the girl seems to blush through her dark hair. He can't really; there's so much of it around her face that it's more likely a shadow in the grim lighting of the morgue. Lindsay shoves her way off his chest; he grunts at the sting but doesn't take his eyes off the new girl, because she's too young and too willowy to be anyone working at the 1PP. He knows most of the interns, if only by assessing their gait and postures.

This girl is no one he's seen before.

She steps away from the pair with eyes of a terrifying brightness and a wide-eyed impression of a mortified doe. Perhaps it's the lighting, or perhaps it's her body, but Danny can tell that the girl is much too narrowly built for her height; she didn't grow up in an Italian neighborhood with a warm apartment and a stomach full of home cooking like he had. But then again, who is he to judge. She could perhaps just be the type of girl to skip a meal.

"I am so, so sorry; I wasn't paying attention -." She glances helplessly around them; no recognition registers in her eyes, and Lindsay remembers the look clearly. She's new here. "I'm looking for Doctor Hammerhead – back! Hammerback!" Now the girl is blushing, and it's very clear on her face.

Lindsay smiles sympathetically at the nervous girl; in her mind is a vague image of a terrified Chihuahua as she steps forward with a friendly hand outstretched. "You must be new; I'm Lindsay Monroe of the Crime Lab." The girl takes her hand with the greatest amount of relief she can muster, and Lindsay smiles softly. It wasn't very long ago that she was in the girl's shoes and Stella the gentle soul. "The goon behind me is Danny Messer."

"Watch it, Montana."

The girl's face is so alight with relief and happiness that Lindsay grows even more wistful. "Allegra Williams." She turns to Danny as the man steps forward, shaking his hand with a slight more wariness than she has with Lindsay. "These halls are labyrinths to maneuver through! I thought I'd rounded on the Minotaur down a corridor!" She flushes again; most likely because she's making embarrassing mythical references at people she's only just met.

High school has taught her very painfully that this is no way to make friends.

Much to her surprise though, Danny chuckles. "That's probably Marty. The guy snores like a motorboat on good days." This comes from a son of an Italian father with congenital sleep apnea.

"What about bad days?" Allegra wonders, but Danny and Lindsay shake their heads ominously enough to silence her curiosity. Instead she focuses on the pair; they're very attractive people. "Do you work for Detective Taylor's team as well?" she asks them politely. It will be nice to be friends with her new teammates – most people have a hard time accepting her. Not many people relate to her level of nerd.

Lindsay blinks in surprise. "You're working for Mac?" she echoes. "I thought you were looking for Sid! – Hammerback," she clarifies, when Allegra frowns. Neither Mac or Stella have mentioned anything about new team members to them, but then again; Lindsay doesn't think they had mentioned _her _arrival to anyone either. The girl begins to shift uncomfortably, perhaps perceiving threat, but Danny moves quicker than her – most likely because he's taken a much more vested interest in her jawline and narrow frame.

"Welcome to the team then, Roadrunner." He shakes her hand with a curious tilt of his head; he's starting at her face as if he's seen her somewhere before, but Danny shakes his head with a jerk and breaks into a wide grin. "Care for a tour around old 1PP?"

Allegra smiles at him apologetically and holds up the case file in her hand. "Detective Taylor assigned me on the first case of the morning," she tells him, and flips the file open to peruse the information inside. "Um, I've been assigned a floater out of the Hudson that I'm supposed to run by with Doctor Hammerback, Detective Bonasera and Lindsay…Monroe." She looks up at Lindsay with a hopeful smile.

Lindsay grins at the prospect of mentoring the new team member. It means Mac trusts her. Even if Stella is supervising; there's a minimal chance of the woman interfering lest necessary. Lindsay makes a note to never make it necessary. "Let's go take a look at our floater."

* * *

><p>"Miss Williams, would you kindly turn your attention away from that book of yours and focus on the problem on the board?"<p>

In a hurry Charlotte slips the book back under her desk and buries her head into her notes, scribbling the question down beneath her hair as she blushes a furious pink. Math has never been her strong suit, and everyone in her class knows it. Of course, it gives her professor ample opportunity for honing in on her; she doesn't know why, but the man despises her with a passion. All she's ever done to him is mention his unzipped fly in the middle of class. Charlie thinks that he should be thankful, but apparently the man believes otherwise.

The question she's written down makes no sense to her at all.

"Psst!" Charlie jolts but she doesn't turn; why should her professor have more ammo on her? She doesn't need another suspension anytime soon. She does though, acknowledge the person hissing at her with a bare tilt of her head backwards. The shadow out of the corner of her eye moves, and Charlie is hit on the side of her face by a wad of paper.

As much as she wants to snarl at the person, she doesn't because she knows better, and instead calmly spreads the paper out and glances down at the messy scrawl of smudged ink. Her brows crease as she reads what's written, and finally she lifts her head to look over at the boy staring at her with impatient expectance. She frowns at the blond boy and stares down hard at his messy writing. He'll make a fine doctor one day.

_Lunch after school with me; my treat. Happy half-birthday?_

Though her gut tells her to refuse politely and have half a street hot dog while she waits for Alene, Charlie trusts the boy. Like her, he's quite a bit of an outcast with boys, and confusingly temperamental with girls, and happens to have the unfortunate name of Neo. He is the stark contrast of Charlie: blond hair that grows in curls despite his standard short cut and deep hazel eyes dark enough to be brown. It's sufficed to say that he looks nothing like his namesake, though his parents have already vehemently denied the fact that they named him after the Matrix hero.

Charlie considers the hidden messages in his note – he wants her to skip seventh and eighth period to go down to Little Italy for lunch. Essentially he wants her to disobey her sister, bail on class and potentially be suspended from school.

He pouts at her when he sees the doubt on her face; he's very good at cajoling Charlie. She's sworn never to succumb, and yet she finds herself scribbling back to him a short, direct response.

_Fine_

She's going to regret it, but what does she know. She is after all, a child.


	3. Chapter 3

**Just a little thank you for those who've stuck around. I do love you all, truly. For information sake, let it be known that Alene is 27 and Charlie 15. Both have grey eyes; Charlie has heterochromia in her left eye.**

**_And so the games begin._**

* * *

><p>They sneak out of class just after the bell for seventh period; no one will miss them in the rush of students, lab coats tucked over their arms and swarming the lower floors. They crawl and crouch and hide and scuttle like mice fleeing the daylight until they come to the gap in the walls behind the school. They've climbed this gap many times before.<p>

It had been a chance find; stumbled upon in a time when they were hunted like foxes by a pack of wicked, rabid students who are only mildly superior to the slobbering beasts that actually hunted the foxes. They're used to running now; their legs are always faster, always longer.

It helps that they kick harder too.

The gap is not too high above them, but high enough to require boosting. Neo is a touch taller than she; already Charlie is tall, but Neo is a man-child – awkwardly long and somewhat narrow. He is strong though.

He widens his stance, stepping wide and bracing himself to guide the girl over. She's not much to lift, and they've done this countless of times; yet he finds her staring at him hesitantly. In the silver grey, he sees the consequences, but the gleaming flecks of russet in her left eye promises excitement.

The heterochromia seems to make her the _fox_; not the mouse.

"What if we get caught?" she asks; the girl in a short green plaid skirt with white pantyhose and the school insignia emblazoned upon the deep blue sweater. Anyone will know who they are; where've they come from.

Charlie has learned a long time ago, that people knowing who and where you come from is the most dangerous thing for them to know.

Neo gives this thought; she's never really worried about this before, but truancy in private schools is 'severely frowned upon', and Charlie's record he knows has been marked a lot lately. It's quick thinking and fast reflexes that has him shedding his own blazer and unraveling his tie. Without his blazer, he looks like any other young man in New York; budding office boys and interns weaving in and out of the mass. He looks at her carefully, scrutinizes the demure sight of her and reaches out to tug the blazer off her shoulders too.

"Take off your 'hose," he orders, already slipping her arms from the blazer and tucking it into his bag. "And your tie."

Charlie stares at him in appropriate bewilderment, as any girl would when asked to disrobe. But she doesn't protest because she knows why he wants her to, and carefully (and mostly embarrassedly) maneuvers her white pantyhose off. Her cheeks flame hot as she bundles the pantyhose and shoves them into her bag together with her tie, huffing at the boy. Neo takes her bag and his and tosses it over the wall, where they know it'll wait for them in the quiet shrubbery.

The boy doesn't waste much more time; he bends, Charlie levels herself on his thigh and leaps upwards and is swung over the wall by the momentum. Charlie has barely stabilized herself when Neo comes tumbling over, staggering to his knee at the impact. They stop for a moment to fetch their bags, and Charlie and Neo find themselves staring at each other with equally giddy grins.

He takes her hand, and they run.

* * *

><p>Alene has seen many types of bodies through her time at BroNo. Every CSI has; it's what they do. She's seen bodies without heads, heads without bodies, and even bodies with heads and not much else. But having said this, it must also be stated that Alene sometimes may have an issue with overwhelming stenches. While she may have the ability to stare down at something questionably human; Alene isn't necessarily able to breathe the aroma.<p>

In this case, it would be the stench of a rotten, bloated corpse.

So when Doctor Hammerback (back, not head) pulls the metal door of the morgue container open, it's safe to say that Alene's stomach doesn't take very well to the burst of smell emanating from the _thing _beneath the sheet. She can't properly define it as human; as far as she knows, it's got a head, limbs, and oozing orifices. It could be a hippo for all she knows.

"As you can obviously see; there isn't much to go on with your John Doe," Hammerback begins, wrinkling his nose as he prods the pile of flesh. Alene smothers the bile at her throat when more fluids seep from the body – the scent is becoming unbearable. "But I can definitely tell you that he died long before he made it to the water."

Lindsay considers this with a grave nod; or perhaps a simple acknowledging nod – the pinch in her brow and the purse of her lips could be the stench. "Do we have anything on COD?" she asks him, and glances to where Alene stands across her, staring intently yet somewhat blankly at the melting pile of flesh. The green of her face is rather telling – "Are you okay, Alene?" She stares at the girl worriedly.

The new CSI nods a little too fast; her stomach roils and her eyes flicker, but she's adamant. "I'm perfectly fine," she croaks. "It's just…a little thick. He's probably been decomposing over five, six days maybe. The gases usually break down by the fourth day following death, but who knows how long he's been in the water." She resists the urge to make a face as Hammerback produces a glass container of liquefied human. "Please tell me that there isn't a finger floating in there."

But of course, it is.

"It's the only one with skin still on it," Sid tells her, smiling apologetically as he hands it to her. She takes it warily, swallowing yet another rush of bile to her throat; puts her free hand over her nose and mouth. It's practically smothering her now. "I don't have much for you yet, but do come back in a couple of hours."

"Gladly," Alene chokes, and is bolting out the door before Lindsay can speak. With her gone, the Montanan native turns to Sid with worried eyes and a wry smile. It's always the same with the new ones; Lindsay was no exception when she first came to the lab. She utters a quick thanks to the ME and rushes out in search for the new girl.

Lindsay finds her keeled over a trashcan not too far down the hall; she figures Alene has yet to memorize the toilets, and moves to where the girl leans over the metal bin. In her hand Lindsay sees the container clutched tightly as she heaves through another round of breakfast. She touches the girl's bowed back and reaches for the container, prying it away from Alene with a sympathetic brush of her hand. When Alene's face finally resurfaces; she gulps for air, Lindsay smiles at her gently.

"Feel better?" she asks kindly, stroking the girl's bony spine. It's a little disconcerting to feel every vertebrae under Alene's skin; absentmindedly she names them as she touches them, recovering when she realizes Alene is groaning something at her.

"I'm so sorry. This never happens to me," Alene flinches at a dry heave and wipes her mouth angrily on her hand. "You must think I'm such a wuss. Floaters were lightweight back then."

Lindsay shakes her head and helps the girl stagger to her feet. She understands what it feels like to falter in front of people; she remembers the shame she'd felt the first time she'd fumbled in front of Mac, and the woman lays a reassuring hand on Alene's shoulder. "Trust me – Detective Flack's been here longer than I have, and he still can't stand the morgue." She grins at the girl, and Alene smiles back uncertainly.

"He's a detective," she counters wryly; Lindsay leads her to a bathroom. She's going to need to rinse out her mouth or she'll taste nothing but ick all day. "I don't think he's ever really needed to be elbow deep in human soup." She hasn't met anyone else just yet, but she's hoping that the rest of them are as friendly as Lindsay. The girl is kind and nice; rapier wit and lightning tongue that amuses Alene.

The older girl rolls her eyes indulgently as she pushes the bathroom door open and guides Alene inside. "Trust me when I say I'd take human soup over tiger crap any day."

Alene doesn't ask why, but she knows it'll be a fun story to hear over a cup of coffee one day. Maybe later in the day, if she's lucky. First she needs to get the scent of decomposed human out of her nostrils.

* * *

><p>"<em>Run, Charlotte! Run NOW!"<em>

How did it get to this? How did this happen without her knowing? She should've seen the signs, seen it coming somehow. Alene is going to be livid. She can't think much now; she can barely breathe as she runs like she'll die if she stops – maybe she will, how would she know?

Her chest is hurting already; sharp and stinging, but she doesn't stop because she can't. There's thundering feet behind her; Neo's still screaming at her so she knows he's close by. But she can't stop to see. She can't check just yet. There's just no time.

"_RUN, CHARLOTTE!"_

She's screaming. For the life of her, she is screaming. There's no one around to hear her though; everything in front of her is empty. Empty roads, empty alleys – empty everything. She didn't believe there was every an empty spot in New York until this very moment. She wishes these spots didn't exist. Her feet are starting to hurt; she's pounded them too hard against the pavement in ridiculously insensible shoes.

She can't stop.

They catch up anyway.

"NEO!" she wails, as the first pair of arms wrap around her like deadly vines; tight and terrifying. She stumbles, she flails and she falls. She takes whoever is gripping her with her, and they tumble to the asphalt and the brick dust. She stares up at the face of the person holding her, her chest heaves with desperate pants ready to scream out as she claws at his arms and at his face. It's not someone she recognizes; not in this lighting.

There's a loud bang, and Charlie can only remember the resonating roar of Neo screaming her name.


	4. Chapter 4

"_So what will you do now that you are sixteen? That's almost legal. Do you feel the difference yet, Little Mouse?"_

"_What difference is there to feel? I'll still go to school the same; I'll lay in bed at night the same. The difference it makes is only to the dangers I face."_

"_And what dangers are those?"_

"_Hunters, Neo – hungry, vicious hunters."_

* * *

><p>There's something odd about the morning. Perhaps it's because he hasn't made much progress with his cases, and he's feeling rather petulant about it, but Mac knows for a fact that petulance and frustration rarely ever feels like something terrible is about to happen. It throws him; it shows clearly in his face when Stella turns her emerald eyes away from their evidence laid neatly out before them. She knows the look on his face, and it concerns her and piques her curiosity somewhat – on the occasion where <em>that look<em> is on Mac's face, something has been wrong.

But maybe she's just jumping to conclusions.

She approaches him anyway and leans her hips against the examination table. "Is everything alright?" she asks him, as lightly as she can, because there's nothing to be worried about just yet, and she's hoping there won't be anything to worry about. She offers him a wry, knowing smile when Mac sighs heavily and rubs the back of his neck. He's uncomfortable; she's not sure if it's because she's called him out on his worries, or whatever it was is genuinely concerning.

Mac grumbles a sound, a harrumph that is amusing in different circumstances. "Something's…odd about today," he tells her quietly, his eyes are troubled because he doesn't know what. "I can't place it."

"Odd as in 'there's something we missed on the case', or odd like 'my pants don't feel like my pants'?" she inquires, grinning beatifically when his grey eyes stare at her mildly. It's entertaining to tease him; it's a form of stress relief she takes pleasure in practicing every day. Though he will deny it – it's good for him too. He just doesn't like to acknowledge the fact.

He frowns at her, or at least he tries to, because she's Stella and he can't stay frowning at her when she's smiling at him like that. "Cute," he deadpans, and Stella giggles. Unfortunately, his will fails him and Mac smiles out of the corner of his mouth before diverting the woman's attention to something more relevant to work. "How are Lindsay and Allegra handling the case?" he asks her.

Stella's spent the morning with the two younger CSIs, overseeing and assisting where they need her to, but mostly she's there to watch. Lindsay is more than efficient, and by lunch, Stella has come to realize that Allegra – who insists to be called Alene, because Allegra is a much too extravagant name for a girl like her – is just as meticulous as the rest of them.

Though, Stella finds the girl to be rather skittish. She rather reminds the Greek woman of a young fox.

"The new kid's pretty good," Stella tells him, and the pride in her voice is noticeable. "She picks up things pretty fast; got a sharp mind on her too." She tilts her head, and her mouth quivers with a smile she's trying to smother. "Though Lindsay says there was an uh…'incident' in the morgue this morning."

The man's eyebrow arches; he's intrigued. "Incident?" he echoes, and begins to smirk when Stella grins. Every one of them has had an incident before; some more often than others, like Danny, and when she was still around, Aiden. Some people don't stand sights and scents as well as others; some don't tolerate confined spaces. Everyone's different in their own way. "Sid didn't show her the decapitated head specimen from our hunter case, did he?" There have been a number of interns fleeing the morgue recently – all fighting bouts of nausea or terrified sobs.

He'll have to talk to Sid about scaring the interns.

"Oh, same old," Stella shrugs, waving her hand in front of her. "Our floater was a little…aromatic when we fished him out of the water – even Lindsay had to stick her nose under the faucet for a little bit to get the smell out." She wrinkles her own sharp, Grecian nose at the memory of the stench. It's not something one can forget very easily. But it's a fortunate thing that Stella has an iron stomach and the will of a God. "Can't blame the poor kid; it was nasty."

Mac manages an indulgent, if sympathetic smile. "She's fine now though, yes?" he asks his partner, and Stella nods her affirmative. With the knowledge of the fact that his people were fully functioning and as of the current moment, away from any form of harm, the question the man has to ask himself now is _why is he so sure something somewhere is terribly wrong?_

Of course, Stella notices the troubled look on his face, as she is wont to do. She tilts her head curiously, thin eyebrows pinched together in a worried little frown, for she never enjoys seeing the man fester and steep in his thoughts without her. At least then, she will be able to pull him out before he treads too deeply into the murky waters of his mind. "Is everything okay?" she inquires gently, as she reaches out to touch his hand.

It's a bare graze of her fingertips on the skin of his wrist, but Mac feels the lingering burn of her touch. He's not entirely unaccustomed to her affections, but lately he's been oddly attuned to them. He looks down at where she lets her fingers linger; soft almond on pale yellow – timeless youth on growing age.

She'll always be beautiful, and he'll always be older.

"Just a thought," he murmurs. "Nothing but a thought."

But what a curious thought it is.

* * *

><p>Neo can't breathe. His heart is pounding viciously and his lungs burn with every desperate gasp that comes from his mouth, but he cannot breathe. Greedily he sucks in the air around him; sputtering like a dying prey as he drags himself and the motionless body that he's holding to his chest.<p>

How far has he run? How long has he forced his legs to move, to rush and to sustain the weight of his body and hers?

He doesn't know. He's lost track somewhere between fleeing and stopping the blood flow from her wounds with his sweater and his tie. It's a funny thing, pain; only when he thinks about it, remembers that he too is wounded, that his limbs begin to ache and his chest begins to burn. Now he feels the bone deep agony in his right ankle; the bullet is still there.

By the time he tumbles to the ground, kissing the gravel and God knows what else in the dark tunnel they're in with his body and hers, he realizes that the next time, he should never stop to think about the pain. Thinking is useless when you're meant to run and run far.

Neo wraps himself around her body, that's now sprawled beside him as he drags himself to her and hovers there; he shakes her awake. "Charlotte." His voice is almost unrecognizable – what creature croaks like the fictional ogre in his form? His bloody hands press against her shirt and leave the red on the white blouse like a brand. "Charlotte, stay awake, damn it."

The girl is too weak to do much else; she moans at the jostling. Her mouth seems to move, her lips part to speak, but no sound can come from within. At the very least, she is lucid enough. Her fingers twitch, she wants his hand and he gives it to her, squeezing her slender hand tight as he hovers over her and they both bleed onto the pavement.

"Stay awake for me, Charlotte. Don't you dare close your eyes," he grunts, but her eyes are already fluttering; they're searching for things that aren't there, and he panics. The thought doesn't come to him until after he's struck her, and his palm is stinging from the contact.

He's just struck a woman. He's just slapped _Charlotte._

Unfortunately his horror at his actions cannot be considered just yet; Charlotte's coming to, and he doesn't have much time to waste. He grasps her face in his hands, wipes the blood and the tears and whatever else that is on her face, and forces her to focus on him. "Little Mouse," he whispers urgently, until there's recognition in her dizzy gaze. "We're almost there, do you understand? Please just hold on until we get there."

There's a miserable whimper that comes from her mouth; the only sound she's made since they'd fled, and her hand rises slowly to touch his. There are tears spilling down her face as she stares up at him with her face crumpled in a mask of fear and agony and grief. "_Neo_," she chokes; her lips are blood red and split.

"I'm here, Charlotte. I'm right here," he soothes her hurriedly – he must move _now!_

She touches his face; the ridge of his brow where the scab is freshly made and vulnerable to the barest of bumps. It's too dark for her to see, or maybe it's not, and it's just a sign of her fading, but she memorizes his face to touch the corner of his mouth, and then his jaw. "I'm so sorry, Neo," she whispers. Her body doesn't want to obey her, and it terrifies her to feel her limbs paralyzed and her lungs slowly beginning to sag. This is not what she thinks Death would feel like. "You weren't supposed to watch me die -,"

"You're not going to die!" he snarls viciously. "You will _not _die on my watch; do you hear me, Charlotte? They're going to have to do more than this to kill us." There's a loud rumbling that echoes down the tunnel, and not far off a blinding light; they have to move or they _will _die, and it won't be an attractive death. He turns to her again, his chest is heaving with the panicked breaths that fill his lungs; the adrenaline begins to pump again.

"We are fighting this," he growls at her, only because he doesn't want her to hear the fear in his voice. Perhaps he's lying to himself as well. He needs the false security. "If I have to crawl by the bed of my nails out of this hellhole for you, Charlotte, we will fight this."

That is all there is left to say, and the boy, just about the cusp of manhood, lifts the body of his dearest friend – the girl he's probably always loved – and faces the blaring horns of Death.

* * *

><p>Alene is getting frustrated with the computer. Or perhaps, just the database in which her victim is hiding within. There is no possible way that the body's identity isn't listed anywhere, and Alene doesn't want to think about going anywhere near the corpse again to search for more evidence to its identity. They've already collected enough of its body parts to gather DNA and start searching CODIS, but nothing comes easy.<p>

Nothing except her temper.

"I will crush you," she growls under her breath, glaring heatedly at the screen of fingerprints zooming by; the reason she's about to go cross-eyed. "I will end your existence and you will regret the day you crossed my path."

"_That's…creepy."_

Alene jumps at the familiar voice, cheeks burning as she turns to face Lindsay and the odd look the Montanan is shooting at her. She musters a flustered smile, still very pink as she rushes to explain herself. "I was just…talking to the…computer."

Not a particularly good explanation.

Stop talking, Alene. Go put your head into a box somewhere.

Lindsay arches an eyebrow and eyes her dubiously, but refrains from commenting, because she's the girl who ate deep-fried spiders and maggot guacamole with Danny. To each her own, she supposes. "We've got a lead on where the possible original crime scene is." She holds out the file in her hand; Alene eyes it almost hungrily. It's her first case, after all. "You got anything on CODIS?" Lindsay gestures to the computer, still in the midst of scanning its database, and Alene's scowl is the obvious enough answer.

"Let's just work this angle first then," she suggests, and Alene nods eagerly.

As she shoves her hands into her coat, Alene's phone chirps, and the young woman frowns when she recognizes the number splayed across the screen. She glances at Lindsay with an apologetic smile before placing the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

"Yes, this is Allegra Williams." She frowns at whatever this person is telling her; something irritating, no doubt. Alene's brow darkens further, and Lindsay is somewhat disconcerted with the way it alters her pretty face. "No, I was not aware, Principle Holden, and yes, I do understand that this is not the first time, but I am at a loss for time at the current moment. Charlotte hasn't done such a thing in months," she insists, but the person seems adamant.

"_Of course I care_," she snaps suddenly, startling her partner. Alene's grey eyes glance sharply at Lindsay's awkward stance, and she inhales deeply to calm her throbbing temper. "I understand that this is a concern, and I _will _rectify it with my sister when I see her. But right now, I have a job to do. So excuse me, Principle; thank you and have a good day." She slaps the phone shut, very tempted to throw it violently across the hall, but she doesn't, because she'll need it to call her sister and yell at her later.

Lindsay frowns at her worriedly as Alene begins to gather her forensics kit. "Is everything okay?" she asks the girl kindly. This obviously hasn't been a very good day for Alene, and Lindsay thinks it best to confront and comfort her new teammate rather than have a grouchy partner for the rest of the case.

The corner of Alene's mouth twitches, but it's not a smile. She jerks her head and tugs the kit off the table with surprising strength; her temper is only just beginning. "It's nothing," she sighs, and offers the pretty brunette an apologetic, wry smile. "A sibling's duty is to drive you insane, no? My sister is no exception."

The fact that Charlotte has missed class yet again bothers Alene. Her sister is usually an obedient, quiet girl in school, with little reason to rebel, but as of late the girl has been acting odd. Could it perhaps be a boy? Neo would've killed the lad by now; she doesn't have to worry about that. So was it perhaps Neo's doing? The boy's been known to be rather mischievous when it came to indulging her sister.

It will be Charlotte's birthday soon – perhaps Neo has devised the escape for his own reason of surprising her. Whatever the reason; it can wait. Alene has a job to do.

Lindsay returns the smile, and turns on her heels to step out of the lab, but Stella is already striding towards them purposefully. She sees the harried look on the woman's face and frowns yet again. Has there been a hindrance in their case? "Stel, what's up?"

Stella huffs a mild sigh and hands Lindsay a new file; a file irrelevant to their case. "This just came in – Mac wants you both on the case." She jerks her head at Alene, motioning for the girl to come closer as she begins to explain this new information. "Subway conductor called in less than an hour ago; found a body on the tracks, still in one piece. Flack's at Angels of Mercy – apparently, we have survivors." She casts a look at Lindsay – survivors are rare, and particularly delicate to handle, but it's better for Alene than a bloated, rotting corpse.

Alene's brow furrows. "Survivors?" she echoes curiously, coming up beside Lindsay. "That's an uncommon find. Was the death ruled as suspect?" Most subway deaths were often ruled accidental; daredevils with needs to fulfill or general delinquents pushed too far. The existence of survivors makes Alene dubious.

"The body was intact, other than his head being bashed in," Stella tells them bluntly, and hands them the file. "Good luck, and bring a flashlight."

And so onward they march.


End file.
